


Logic and Linguistics

by lily_winterwood



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Languages and Linguistics, Linguistics, References to Carl Sagan, Romance, Starfleet Academy, Xenolinguistics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The morphemes and phonemes of languages are the atoms of linguistics. The rules they adhere to can be observed and understood by those who seek to know them.”<br/>“So you like its logic?”<br/>“Put simply, yes,” agrees Spock.<br/>“Good,” says Nyota. “That’s what brought me in, too.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Logic and Linguistics

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is kind of a response to misscam’s “[The Logic of Languages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/176972)”. Additional inspiration comes from my own linguistics classes.

The first time S’chn T’gai Spock sees her, her face blends in with the faces of the other members of the class, prim but diminutive in her cadet reds as she sits with her back straight against the hard plastic chairs of the classroom.

He opens up Introduction to Xenolinguistics with a discussion on Federation Standard, on the language that binds together the planets of the Federation and even most of the civilisations beyond. She sits there in her seat, her posture never slumping as she avidly takes notes. When her hand isn’t moving, her gaze remains transfixed on him, dark-eyed, enigmatic, brilliant.

When Nyota Uhura opens her mouth, it is to address the Federation Standard Pronunciation symbols and their Terran roots in the old International Phonetic Alphabet. “Because Federation Standard was once referred to by its Terran name, English, so much of the Federation still centres around Earth and Terran culture,” she says. “Most symbols of the FSP are just transposed IPA symbols. There are non-Terran linguists who argue that this focuses too much attention on Earth and not on the Federation as a whole. What is your belief?”

“Each additional symbol in the FSP is derived from the culture that originates the sound,” Spock replies. “For example, the Andorian ‘sh’ sound is illustrated by its own symbol as opposed to the Terran symbol, as it is uttered differently. It is a palatal fricative, as opposed to a post-alveolar fricative, which is the Terran ‘sh’.”

Nyota purses her lips, tilts her head to the side, and asks another question. “But for those who grow up learning the alphabet and pronunciation symbols for their languages, would they want to switch to a primarily-Terran pronunciation system?”

“The existing Terran phonetic alphabet has been helpful in approximating the sounds found in languages like Klingon and Vulcan,” says Spock. “As we will learn later on in the class, when we cover phonology, it is logical to utilise the symbols which can be used to approximate for the greatest majority of phonetic sounds. For example, contrary to popular myth, the Vulcan language is actually pronounceable for non-Vulcans, provided they have an understanding of FSP symbols. FSP is the key to understanding how to pronounce words from anywhere in the galaxy. In this case, it is not a symbol of linguistic oppression, but rather a bridge to effective communication.”

Her eyes never leave his as he begins listing the components of their final grades.

* * *

Over the course of that first course together, Spock teaches Nyota the pronunciation of the full FSP symbol inventory. There are things she struggles with, like the punctuating clicks of Betazoid and the musical trills of Deltan, but she perseveres like no other student and masters them all.

She is majoring in xenolinguistics, he knows. Her classes, when they are not dedicated to fulfilling basic requirements, veer heavily into non-Terran languages. She finds the Cardassian loanwords in Klingon and Romulan, notes the similar morphological rules for Vulcan and Romulan (which is all that remains of their common linguistic ancestry), and applies a mild form of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis as she analyses the cultural contexts of words found only in Tellarite (mostly things about the ‘hidden females’). And through it all, she constantly turns to him for assistance and advice.

And after a while, he finds himself giving more than just that.

“The rest of the class hates me,” she says. It’s a Wednesday afternoon; Spock’s office hours are now, though the only student who ever seems to visit him is Nyota. The others are a mixture of intimidated and disdainful. So many people take this class to fulfil a requirement; they do not see it for its full potential.

“Hate is an extreme emotion. I do not believe your classmates begrudge you your success.”

She laughs, looking up at him from her translation of an Andorian poem. Spock watches her run her mouth through Aenar loanwords, tongue and teeth and lips moving dutifully to shape the consonants and vowels according to their FSP pronunciations.

“I’ll bet some of the people who are on the Communications track do,” she says.

“They do not put in as much effort into grasping the concepts of the class as you do,” says Spock, forcefully drawing his eyes back up to hers instead of fixating on the way she voices the Andorian consonant cluster ‘zh’. It has a more forceful click than the Terran equivalent. “They also do not devote their spare time to translating Andorian poetry.”

She laughs. “Is that a joke, Professor?” she asks.

He feels an odd lightness at his side; it’s as if his heart is swelling with some sort of unidentifiable emotion. “Perhaps,” he replies. “You may be gratified to know that, also contrary to popular myth, Vulcan humour exists.”

“It’s tied to its language, isn’t it,” says Nyota. “It’s like pre-Warp Mandarin Chinese. Sarcasm is harder to convey in pre-Warp Mandarin because the sounds change meanings when intoned differently, but that same hindrance allows for a greater variety of puns.”

“Wordplay demonstrates a command of the language beyond the scope of an ordinary speaker,” says Spock. “In that case, Vulcan is indeed similar to pre-Warp Mandarin in its appreciation for puns. However, the meaning of its words is not as heavily reliant on clear enunciation.”

“I wonder what Vulcan puns look like,” muses Nyota, “and if you can find them on the backs of popsicle sticks in Shi’Kahr.”

The corners of Spock’s mouth twitch upwards just slightly.

* * *

“You’re a science officer,” remarks Nyota.

“I was on the Sciences track,” Spock affirms.

They are sitting across from one another in one of the dining halls. Spock is poking at his plomeek soup; Nyota hasn’t even touched her salad.

“Yet you teach linguistics.”

“And computer programming.”

“Both of which fall under the purview of Operations,” she says.

“I know many things,” replies Spock vaguely. Nyota snorts in laughter. “It is the truth, Cadet—”

“Call me Nyota,” she offers, her smile distracting him for a moment.

“Nyota,” he amends. “It is logical to cultivate a broad base of knowledge, especially when one is serving as first officer and chief science officer onboard a Federation flagship.”

“So you’ve been assigned to the _Enterprise_ , then?”

“Affirmative.”

She smiles at him. “Congratulations, Professor.”

“Call me Spock,” he suggests, reciprocating her earlier gesture. She nods at him, beaming.

“All right then, Spock, tell me: what got you interested in linguistics?”

Spock tilts his head and ponders his answer for a moment, before saying, “It is its own science.”

“A cognitive science, yes—”

“Not only that,” continues Spock. “The morphemes and phonemes of languages are the atoms of linguistics. The rules they adhere to can be observed and understood by those who seek to know them.”

“So you like its logic?”

“Put simply, yes,” agrees Spock.

“Good,” says Nyota. “That’s what brought me in, too.”

Spock’s not sure why his side flutters at that, but it does. He decides to take a gulp of the plomeek soup to delay his response. It’s not as good as what his mother can make, but it is satisfactory.

“I am gratified that you view linguistics from the same perspective as me,” he says after a moment.

“Science is a concept all sapient species can understand. Mathematics is the language in which they convey those truths.” Nyota purses her lips and moves to take a bite of salad. “But for me? Certain logics connect the languages of distant planets. Linguistics tells me that there are universal grammars to which all these different tongues conform, no matter if their cultures exist next to each other or light-years apart. It tells me that even languages you only hear in the Delta Quadrant can be analysed and held to linguistic principles.”

He nods. “Eloquently stated, Nyota,” he says with the faintest hint of a smile.

“Thank you,” she replies, warmth evident in her voice.

* * *

The first time he is confronted with his burgeoning emotions towards her is that afternoon in the library at the dusty back table, a 3D chess set between them and a set of vowel charts spread before her.

“Why does Vulcan have so many vowels?” Nyota wonders.

“That is an unfair assessment. Vulcan has five main vowels,” replies Spock. “The other vowels are allophones, as they exist in complementary distribution to the main vowels.”

Nyota moves her rook up to the third level. “Short vowels, long vowels, standard vowels—and the only thing telling the short and standard ones apart is the barest aspiration of the ’h’.” She hums to herself as Spock takes her knight with a bishop, and then taps her fingers against the table before shifting a pawn back to the first tier. “Still not sure on the pronunciation of the ‘fn’ sound in Vulcan, though.”

“Co-articulate the f and the n,” Spock suggests.

“How do you pronounce your surname?” Nyota asks, resting her chin on her folded hands after bringing another pawn to the second level.

He looks at her, an eyebrow raised. “Surely you are capable of drawing your own conclusions,” he says.

“I like having an authorised pronunciation,” she replies with a shrug as she shifts her bishop. “Check.”

He moves his king out of check. “An authorised pronunciation would be illogical, as all speakers have different speech patterns which changes both how the sound is heard and how it is transcribed.”

“It means more when it comes to names,” says Nyota. “I don’t want to know how some random linguist from the Gamma Quadrant pronounces your name; I want to know how you say it.”

“My pronunciation may differ from my phonetic transcription,” replies Spock. “FSP is only as reliable as you are able to interpret the base sounds. As you suggested on your first day, numerous non-Terran linguists who do not frequently utilise sounds from the old IPA would therefore struggle with the pronunciation of many words. They may also be more accustomed to the phonetic glyphs of their own cultures.”

“Similar to how the pre-United Earth region known as the United States utilised several of its own phonetic symbols, such as the j-caron instead of the IPA dezh to represent the voiced palato-alveolar affricate.” Nyota smiles at him and moves a pawn. “Check.”

“Precisely.” Spock moves his king out of check again. Nyota pursues him, this time with her own queen. “There are numerous factors that affect phonetic transcriptions. A speaker’s regional accent and their familiarity with the FSP symbols are two factors.”

Nyota hums. “Now you’re just prevaricating on telling me how to say your surname. I know you know FSP, and I know you have a Shi’Kahrian accent. I honestly don’t think I’d trust any other pronunciation, so what’s the point?”

Spock huffs in amusement, and tells her his surname. When he loses the game half an hour later, he watches Nyota leave the library with that familiar fluttering sensation in his side. This time it feels more powerful than ever before.

* * *

“What inspired you to join Starfleet?” wonders Spock as they head down to the dining hall together.

“ _Cosmos_ , by Carl Sagan,” says Nyota.

“Ah,” replies Spock.

They’re regularly taking their meals together now; people are starting to wonder if there is more than friendship and professionalism between them.  Nyota has defused as many of the rumours as she can, but Spock knows enough about humans to know that a rumour is like one of the hydras of pre-Warp Terran myth—you slice off one head, two more take its place. You debunk one rumour, two more pop up.

Their usual table is vacant, and Nyota drops her satchel there with a grin. Spock discards his coat; he has taken to wearing a heavy faux-wool one due to the rapidly chilling weather.

“I wonder what Mr. Sagan would say about this,” Nyota says later, once they have gotten their food. She eats the exact same salad as she does all the other times they sit together, and Spock always has a bowl of plomeek soup. It is one of the few Vulcan dishes that the Academy dining halls know how to create.

“About what, precisely?” Spock enquires, idly stirring his soup. They don’t eat much of their food as they converse, either.

“All of this.” Nyota gestures to the room with her fork. “Starfleet. Us going out there into the galaxy and learning new things, studying new cultures. I wonder if he’s ever thought of the _Enterprise_ and her mission, and wondered how long it’d take humanity to get there.”

“He cannot have thought of the _Enterprise_ as we know it today,” Spock replies.

“No, but there were a lot of pre-Warp vessels named _Enterprise_ , too. Besides, I didn’t mean _our Enterprise_. I meant _an Enterprise_. Some vessel designed to go out into the galaxy to find life and wonder.”

“I doubt that he would believe in such an endeavour without a degree of scepticism. After all, first contact between the Terrans and the Vulcans did not occur until the Terrans had achieved warp drive,” says Spock.

Nyota shrugs. “My mother loved the book. She got it from my grandmother, and gave it to me when I passed the Starfleet entrance exams. She used to read the book to me when I was young and tell me that I was named after a concept in the book.”

“Which concept?” enquires Spock, tilting his head to the side in interest.

“We are all star-stuff,” replies Nyota, before tucking into her salad.

* * *

Nyota asks Spock, in her graduating year, to oversee her thesis. By that time, she has just taken and passed Advanced Xenolinguistics, as well as a Language and Society course that talked about how different societies used language as a tool of oppression.

She wants to study for her thesis the stories of the survivors and refugees of the Eugenics Wars in pre-United Earth history. Spock helps her find their descendants and accompanies her to the interviews. He watches her sit on the couch with these people whose families have suffered so much. He watches her hold their hands.

(He wants to hold her hand, but he knows that’s indecent.)

Centuries are enough to wipe traces of the Eugenics Wars out of the public consciousness. Many families rebuilt and re-grew. But for some, especially those sent to the Lunar colonies, the scars remain memorialised in the old digital archives of ancient blogs and blog posts, of ‘tweets’ and ‘statuses’ that bring to life ghostly voices of the past. The descendants give Nyota access, and she reads them on her PADD with Spock looking over her shoulder, taking note of how the languages are changed.

Before the Eugenics Wars, the proponents of the United Earth initiative saw the need for a standardised language. Federation Standard—or its name at the time, English—was chosen to be this common tongue. Naturally, the people protested.

Nyota reads with watery eyes the angry posts in different languages, many of which are now dead. She breaks down when she sees cries for help in Swahili, the language of her own ancestors. Spock is not sure how to comfort her, and so places a wary hand on her shoulder.

She looks up at him. “I can do this,” she says. “I need to do this.”

She traces the sociolinguistic causes of the Eugenics Wars up to the end, to the compromise that gave the planet a common tongue (Federation Standard) that was held no higher than any of the other surviving languages. From her tiny carrel in the corner of the library where they usually play chess, she writes out a devastatingly honest paper about the imperialistic background of Federation Standard and how it has been used in the past to discriminate and oppress.

Spock thinks she is one of the finest students he has ever had the pleasure of teaching.

* * *

The first time they kiss, it is an accident.

“I don’t understand why holos still showcase lip-to-lip contact as the only way for couples in romantic relationships to kiss,” Nyota says as they sit side-by-side on the couch in his faculty apartment, watching a holovid of some sort of cheesy movie made in the 2230s. According to Nyota, the Terran fashion sense of the ‘30s was hilariously dubious. But then again, each progressing decade views the previous one as one riddled with bad sartorial decisions.

“Terran culture is highly influential on the rest of the Federation,” Spock replies neutrally. “Naturally the Terran manner of expressing affection would become a very visible indicator of the impact of Terran culture.”

“Different species watch these holovids,” murmurs Nyota. “Species that might not have lips, or species that see lip-to-lip contact as something different, from a simple greeting to an act akin to murder. I don’t know why it’s so normalised in holovids, because Earth isn’t the centre of the Federation.”

“But most of the administrative buildings of the Federation are located in this very city,” Spock points out.

Nyota considers that. “True, but the Federation government isn’t as human-dominated as the media is. When’s the last time characters in a holovid expressed a Vulcan expression of affection?”

Spock huffs in light amusement. “Characters touch fingers all the time.”

“Not always in an emotionally-charged manner, so they would not be under the purview of ‘kissing’, would it?” She huffs in frustration and returns her attention to the screen. The living room is darkened, and as the holovid progresses, Spock vaguely realises that they are sitting close enough to touch.

The first time they kiss, Nyota initiates the contact, brushing her hands against his on the couch. Their index and middle fingers briefly touch, and Spock feels a deep thrill within him at the softness and warmth of her hand.

Nyota’s fingers linger against his for a moment longer before they begin to trail along the back of his hand. He turns his hand as a response; she runs the pads of her fingertips across his palm, traversing down his pointer and middle fingers before pressing her own pointer and middle fingers to his.

He feels the emotions stirring within her at this bodily contact; he knows now the depth of her affection for him and the uncertainty in her mind as to whether or not those emotions are reciprocated. He wants to reassure her that he does feel something, though he is not sure what it is, and he moves to entwine their fingers.

She gasps a little. He remains silent. Her euphoria is fraught with uncertainty and doubt. She suddenly startles, pauses the holo, and turns to look down at their joined hands. Her fingers are slender and dark against his own.

“I’m sorry,” Nyota says as she retracts her fingers. “I shouldn’t have—that was out of line and so culturally insensitive and—”

“There is no need for apology,” Spock says, reaching for her hand again. She flushes, looking up at him through long, dark lashes.

“Professor—”

“You are graduating in three months. I will no longer be your professor then.”

“You’d still be a commanding officer,” she points out. “Especially if we’re serving on the _Enterprise_ together. You’d be _my_ commanding officer, and it’s all against regulation and—I’m sorry.” She rises abruptly from the couch. “For the sake of professionalism I believe that friendship is all that must exist between us.”

Her words are cool and clipped, completely unlike her. Spock doesn’t stop her in her retreat out of his apartment. He shuts off the holoprojector instead, his heart still racing in tandem with the unpleasant turning sensation in his stomach.

He tempers the urge to cry. Emotional compromise is beneath him.

* * *

Spock does not look up to see where Nyota is sitting in the crowd of cadets during the academic hearing. He isn’t sure if he can meet her gaze.

He argues with Cadet James T. Kirk about the ethics of his actions in the _Kobayashi Maru_ with a viciousness he didn’t know he could feel. It’s almost as if he’s channelling his frustration—a frustration he wasn’t aware that he had until now—into this argument. Debate is nothing like linguistics; it is competition and persuasion. Its logics are more mutable than the rules of phonology and syntactical structures.

The distress call from Vulcan interrupts the hearing, and Spock reports to the hangar with all the cadets, his calm demeanour hiding his uncertainty and turmoil.

Nyota quickly finds him in the crowd nonetheless.

“Commander, a word?”

His stomach flip-flops when he hears the ice in her voice.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” he asks, not looking at her.

“Was I not one of your top students?” she demands.

“Indeed you were,” he replies, striding away. She follows him, her footsteps in sync with his.

“And did I not, on multiple occasions, demonstrate exceptional aural sensitivity, and, I quote, an ‘unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmissions tests’?”

“Consistently, yes.” He remembers seeing her in the long-range sensor labs, listening to subspace frequencies. As different cultures’ subspace transmissions had different signatures, the upper-level Xenolinguistics courses all spent some portion of their class time in the labs to decode transmissions from different cultures. Once, while Nyota had been in his Advanced Xenolinguistics class, he had watched her pinpoint the origin of certain subspace signatures down to their exact locations by listening to the dialects used in the transmission. Few people on the Communications track could do that. The fact that Nyota Uhura could did not surprise him as much as it could have.

In recent days, though, her usage of the labs has increased in frequency. He knows she has been avoiding him. Ever since that night—

He suppresses the thought of it now; she is speaking again, her tone brittle with anger.

“And while you were well aware of my own qualified desires to serve on the USS _Enterprise_ , I’m assigned to the **_Farragut_**?”

He turns then to look at her, schooling his expression into a calm mask.

“It was an attempt to—” he cuts off when another officer walks past, before returning her gaze once more. He cannot lie to her, and he wouldn’t lie to her even if he could. The truth is shameful, but it has to be said. “To avoid the appearance of favouritism,” he finishes.

Her expression is almost disdainful. “No,” she states. “I’m assigned to the _Enterprise_.”

He holds her gaze a moment longer before caving, and pressing a couple buttons on his PADD to change her assignment. It is a risk to his mental well-being, having her onboard the _Enterprise_ with him, but it is a risk he is willing to take.

“Yes, I believe you are,” he says, before abruptly turning and walking away.

“Thank you,” she calls after his retreating back, and there is a little more warmth in it than what he has heard from her in weeks.

He doesn’t dare to hope. Hope is an emotion that must be controlled.

* * *

The second time they kiss, it’s in a more human fashion. Nyota’s body presses against him, warm and reassuring. Her hands cup his face; her eyes glisten with unshed tears for him. She hurts for him, he knows. He can sense it in her skin where it presses against his; he can feel it in the strokes of her fingers in his hair.

He holds her, clinging to her like a drowning man.

“What do you need? Tell me,” she whispers into his ear, her arms wrapped around him in a bittersweet embrace. He is reminded of the softness of his mother’s arms, and fights against the rising surge of sadness within him. When she moves to look at him in the eyes once more, he returns her gaze, silent for a moment longer.

“I need everyone,” he mumbles, his voice shaky to his own ears as he reaches out to restart the turbolift, “to continue performing admirably.”

He still aches to feel familial bonds break, to feel the agony of the millions of dying Vulcans, to see his own mother plunging off the cliff and how, if he’d just held on or urged her to stand somewhere sturdier, she could have survived—

He holds back the emotions. He must carry out Captain Pike’s orders.

Nyota nods at him, because there is little else she can do. “Okay,” she breathes, pressing another kiss to his lips before brushing her fingers against his. She reads his expressions as if they are part of a linguistic puzzle, understands the subtleties of his facial expressions like he is her own language. It doesn’t surprise him that she would be fluent by now.

He steps from the turbolift when the doors slide open, and he can feel her gaze on him as he continues down the hallway.

* * *

When he agrees to beam board the _Narada_ with James Kirk to disable the drill and the decalithium, Nyota is there on the transporter pad with him, looking apprehensively into his eyes.

He looks back, memorising with his gaze the soft contours of her face, the fullness of her lips, the darkness of her eyes. This could be their last moments together, he knows. The odds of their survival are low, ranging between forty to twenty percent depending on whether or not they find the decalithium.

He presses his forehead to hers, feeling her apprehension as well as something else he isn’t sure he can name.

“I will be back,” he promises. Nyota looks at him, the slightest spark of hope in her eyes.

“You better be,” she tells him, her voice a shaky whisper. “I’ll be monitoring your frequency.”

“Thank you, Nyota,” he says, kissing her. It’s the last chance he’ll have for the foreseeable future. She steps off the transporter pad and heads back to the bridge; his gaze follows her retreating figure before he hears Kirk speak up beside him.

“So her first name’s Nyota?”

“I have no comment on the matter,” replies Spock.

Kirk looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Spock turns his mind to the mission at hand, but thinking about the Romulan ship brings him back to thoughts of Nyota, back to long discussions of the shared linguistic roots of Romulan and Vulcan.

As Romulans physiologically evolve into a species distinct from the Vulcans, so must their language. Their cultures are so wildly disparate now, but there was a time back before Surak when Vulcans used the same words that Romulans use now.

The golden transporter light envelops him a moment later, taking him onto the _Narada_.

* * *

In the moments when Spock knows that he is dying, he thinks of Nyota that afternoon where she left Cochrane Hall with a bright beaming face and the announcement that her thesis had been returned with an exemplary grade.

Spock offered to treat her to ice-cream, and they soon found themselves in an retro-styled parlour with frozen nitrogen ice cream cones in their hands. They walked along the old pier after that, watching the sun glimmer on the waters of San Francisco Bay. Spock’s fingers came within a hair’s breadth of touching hers, but she noticed and drew back to give him space. Yet somehow, space was not what he needed at that moment.

Looking back on it now, Spock thinks in these last brief minutes that that was the moment in which he knew he had fallen in love with Nyota Uhura. He had come to acknowledge over the years prior that he had had some form of emotional investment in her, starting from the day in which she had beat him at chess for the first time. It is ironic, he thinks, that it is only now, with the imminent threat of Earth’s destruction, with the death of Vulcan fresh in his mind, with the memory of countless lives—including his mother’s — lost to Nero, that he can truly grasp the extent of his feelings. It is only in death that he realises the true extent of his life.

Nero’s face now fills the viewscreen of the _Jellyfish_ , and Spock cannot stop the revulsion in the pit of his stomach as he looks into the eyes of the Romulan who has killed so many of his people.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and if he kills himself in the process of destroying Nero, it would have been for the preservation of Earth and the lives of the people Nyota knew and loved.

He can do that much for her at least.

* * *

He is beamed out of the _Jellyfish_ just in time, just before it and the decalithium it carries slam into the hull of the Romulan ship responsible for the genocide of the Vulcan people.

When they are on their way to safety Nyota finds him again, standing on the observation deck with his hands folded behind his back, looking out at the stars. They are all so very distant, and yet so very intimate.

“ _All of the rocky and metallic material we stand on, the iron in our blood, the calcium in our teeth, the carbon in our genes were produced billions of years ago in the in the interior of a red giant star_ ,” Spock quotes as he hears her quiet footsteps, hears her taking a seat on the bench behind him. He turns to see her, face lit in the dim starlight. “ _We are made of star-stuff_ ,” he says as he walks towards her.

“Carl Sagan,” she murmurs. “You read the book.”

“I obtained a version for my PADD,” he replies.

“Same difference.”

“It is public domain, as it is approaching three centuries out of date.”

She laughs at that. “But the sentiments contained within it still ring true,” she points out. “Going boldly towards the stars, discovering as much as we can out there—that’s why we’re on this ship, aren’t we? That’s why I’m not in the United Earth Diplomatic Corps as a translator or something, and why you aren’t locked up in a Vulcan Science Academy laboratory on T’Khut.”

 “Indeed,” he says, though it hurts a bit to think of Vulcan, to think of what-could-have-beens. He could have died today if he had accepted his spot at the Vulcan Science Academy. He could have lived his entire life without knowing James T. Kirk, or Leonard McCoy, or Nyota Uhura. And that thought chills him more than the thought of barely avoiding death.

She gestures for him to sit. “We should talk,” she says.

“It would be the most logical recourse,” he replies. “What do you wish to discuss?”

“This,” she says, gesturing to the space between them. “Us. Our relationship.”

“You told me several weeks ago that you wished for us to remain friends. I am therefore honouring that request.” Even despite the fact that she kissed him several times throughout this entire experience. Spock is nothing if not a Vulcan of his word.

“That was before I almost lost you,” Nyota says, her voice dismissive but her eyes intense. “When I saw you heading on that suicide run towards the _Narada_ —”

He brushes his fingers against hers; her breath catches audibly.

“Spock,” she breathes.

“Are you amenable to becoming my significant other?” he asks.

She blinks rapidly, before nodding furiously. “Yes,” she says, a smile slipping onto her face. He responds by cupping her cheeks with his hands and leaning in to kiss her.

Her lips are soft against his, and when he breaks away, she smiles at him with a contented expression, her breath coming a little faster than usual in her exhilaration.

“My star,” Spock murmurs for the first time, and Nyota laughs.

* * *

The Drake Equation once postulated that the number of intelligent civilisations trying to contact Earth from out there in the universe equalled the number of habitable planets multiplied by the fractions of planets that develop life, that develop _intelligent_ life, that develop civilisations and technology and the ability to explore space. That, then, was multiplied by the time it took to attain the ability to escape the planet’s confines. The odds were not very optimistic on that front, as it allotted plenty of time for each intelligent civilisation to destroy themselves before they could make contact with the rest of the universe.

Spock is gratified that the equation is no longer necessary, that Terrans do not need to live with the fear that they may be alone out there amidst the stars. The universe teems with life, and there are certain logics that hold them all together.

Science enables sentient creatures to seek out new life, to question all those who would seek to limit knowledge. Mathematical truths facilitate science and technological advancement, as numbers, in their truest form, do not have nationalities.

Languages, in their purest form of morphemes and phonemes, have no nationality either. Linguistics posits that all languages follow universal grammatical principles. All languages have rules for sentence structure, for pronunciation, for decoding certain sounds into fathomable phrases and sentences. It is like connecting stars into constellations—the names and structures may be different, but the purpose and the principles are the same.

Spock connects the birthmarks on Nyota’s back into their own constellations as he lies next to her in bed. She is still asleep.

And in the half-light of the room, he smiles.


End file.
